


gnashing teeth

by scripttura



Series: self insert undertale [13]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horrortale, Amnesia, Dark elements, Dissociation, Gore, Horror, Imprinting, Marking, Mental Illness, Mute Reader, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reader Is Not Frisk, Suspense, Torture, Trauma, Underground
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-11 09:17:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18427604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scripttura/pseuds/scripttura
Summary: you don't talk. sans doesn't seem to care as papyrus is convinced that since you're broken, he must fix you.funny, how it's you doing most of the fixing.





	1. creeping over the edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gore level: n/a

He speaks in laughter, the hollow tone of an empty chest rolling through pseudo throat, humored. A skeleton shouldn't be able to smile and yet there he does, stretched across skull as if carved in, down to the very grooves of teeth. It's unnerving, it's unnatural.

You aren't sure if it can even be called that. A smile, or the natural curl of teeth, set into rictus shape as your own skull. It is comforting a thought neither way, smiling skeleton or not.

And yet, he laughs. Laughs beneath tattered clothing and curved teeth, ragged against ribcage and you can hear it; like a deep, wet cough. Sickly.

He smells sickly, looks it, even as humor laces lucid words, “y'lost, kid?”

Lost?

“how 'bout deaf?” You shake your head at the way he bends over creaking stand, skull resting further into crossed arms. With trembling hands, you mime over your throat, and rotten eye dilates. “... huh.”

If anything, he looks curious by the crook of a skeletal brow and slimming of his teeth. It's…. unsettling, the way he expresses, fingers dancing upon wood, and that hole - rotten in his skull.

You aren't sure how to continue. Daring not to set fingers upon wooden stand, they lay within lined pockets for what little warmth you have: every step past those busted ruin doors had only gotten colder and colder, up to the point snow had begun to crunch underfoot. if it weren't for the folklore long surrounding the Ebott mountain range, you wouldn't have believed a moment of it.

But here you are, and here monster looks to you with rotten eye and gnashing, smiling teeth.

“... what was it? _cat_ got your tongue?”

You reel back, slightly - skeleton's grin tightens once more, and arm stretches out, phalanges creeping over the edge closest to you. He's sprawled, stretched across stand in his lazing to where it almost feels he's crawling across the surface, slowly.

You take a step back, and shake your head.

You notice his other hand now. Limp at his side beneath counter, and there's the distinct feeling he's reaching for something.

Another step back, and grin contorts, sick as the rotten ichor past the crack of his head.

“yeah? well how about a _skeleton-?_ ”

He stops.

Caught in your throat lies a choked scream, and in his hand wicked ax drawn tight in broken phalanges. His entire weight leans on a hand palm down on the edge of the stand, body stretched over - mid-swing broken. In the next few moments, you stumble back, hitting the snowy path hard, but never once do you look away from that raised ax.

“... bro.” Slowly, rotten eye slides to the side away from you. The way his grin splits then is sly, if not jaggedly so: a mimicry of something once loving to someone who can no longer comprehend it.

“SANS.”

Turning to look is a mistake.

Further upon the path stands a twisted, jagged monster, another skeleton tall as the first one is wide. His jaw is hinged unalike the first, crooked teeth that chatter together with the rest of his body; ragged scraps of what must have once been a tight black suit, and the torn fragments of some kind of uniform.

Even the scarf on his neck is too bold a bloody red, a crimson scarf waving in the wind.

He is twice your height, and there is no illusion of what lies beneath gloved hands.

“ _A - A HUMAN!_ ” And he screeches like a banshee, something akin to joy in his tone. For all his worth, the other skeleton - Sans, had taller said? - winces, and draws back into sentry stand, ax once again set at side and out of sight.

“I CAN'T BELIEVE IT!” Sudden, swift, as quiet as he must have come, the skeleton skitters on long gaitly legs to reach for you - there is not enough room to scramble back from the ground, let alone find your feet. That choked scream comes to life anew, but nothing escapes par soft wheeze from a hammering chest.

The way he lifts you … is surprisingly gentle?

Gentle, for gloved hands that pluck you up from underarms, but careful not to strain, tall skeleton lifts you up, _up_ to a … _far_ more anatomically correct structure than - Sans. If not more gauntly, with the same expressive molds for raised brows his ( bro? brother? ) has. You're still terrified, even if he only smells of pasta sauce and mold.

“WHERE D-DID YOU - _HOW DID YOU…?_ ” Teeth click shut. You're pressed far back as you can in monstrously kind hold, chest heaving from the cold and fear. It is now skeleton truly looks you over, and his expression - softens, in a way. A way you can't quite tell, being made completely of bone(?).

“I'm Sorry,” murmured - or, as close as it seems he can get, voice still grating but noticeably toned down. “I Did Not -” Two bright white lights in those sockets, jittering to the side where Sans watches lazily, with what seems little to no interest at all. “... I D-Did Not Mean To Scare You.”

And slow, just as soon as you had been lifted? Gently are you set down on trembling, weak feet.

It's hard not to run, but just as hard not to fall down.

The way Sans smiles at you, lackadaisical as he may seem behind brother's back, is warning enough that you best not do either.

“... Human?” Again, grating voice calls for you, and you flinch. Tall skeleton hunches over self easily, crouched nearly on a knee. “Are Y-You - Oh Sans, I Did Not Break - _Break_ _It_ , Did I?”

“doesn’t talk.” Sans throws back, gruff and disinterested in tone alone. At that, taller skeleton lights up, but concern is a strange emotion to twist upon a skull, yet it fits his like a glove, worn and familiar.

Sudden is the way he rears up, as if in pain alone - contorting from concern to … it's hard to place? and yet, once again creature shrieks, “IT _IS_ BROKEN! NO - SANS, THIS IS _UNACCEPTABLE!_ ”

“ _papyrus_.” A warning in those words. It draws giant to a pause, locked joints and frozen lights - but for a moment alone, before he snaps to life again, this time standing up tall once more.

“... Well.” Firm, voice once again at that forced, grating low, “I Suppose It Is Up To I, The Great Papyrus ( And Possibly My Brother, Sans ) T-To Nurse You To Health For - For _Japes!”_

“ _y_ _eah_ ,” Slow, the word creaks from Sans’ maw, that bloody eye carved a path away from you both, skull sitting heavy in a jutting palm. Ever so crookedly do thin teeth sharpen in grin, “... _japes_.”

You have no way to resist when Papyrus gathers you once more with gentle touch, huddling you against his chest, taking you both up the path and leaving grinning skeleton behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you think i'll ever commit solely to one fic alone, let alone finish it? fool. i just don't have the attention span, unfortunately,,
> 
> i found this in my drive, and it was well written enough i only needed to fix a few things before gently setting this out! i was unsure if i should've posted it to my other horrortale snippet collection, 'fracture', but thought the hell since i may continue this - we'll see: lemme know if you'd like to see more, i suppose!
> 
>  
> 
> [my tumblr .](http://scripttura.tumblr.com)


	2. must be a broken thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gore level: low

Monstrous is the way Papyrus crows, words split from jagged teeth as if cooing to a broken child. One moment he seems to screech in some kind of joy you don’t understand, the next he stills, stuttering like a broken record caught on the same words, same sounds, before remembering himself.

Nevertheless, how careful are you cradled against tattered cloth and brittle bones alike, huddled against him alike the babe he treats you as.

No longer do you hear Sans’ hiss of a voice curdling through the artic air as it had before near to his stand, your face pressed tight into Papyrus’ chest. The sound of clicking, jittering bones is all that greets that screeching rise-and-fall cadence, no love lost in your lack of a reply.

You’re cold. Papyrus offers little to no warmth as he goes on about how _lucky_ you are, large crimson gloves and thin, wiry bones digging into you in sharp contrast. Tattered clothes and thin, jagged bones make for little in the way to avoid the glimpses of an outside world passing you by on long, stilted legs.

“ _SHHH_ ,” Tall monster snarls, brokenly hissed through crooked teeth as if you had been speaking right along. “S-SNOWDIN’S UP AHEAD.”

Snowdin. You don’t even know what that is.

Tall broken crowns of dying trees flicker by, pine nettle mixing the snow in a dirty brown. You can smell the sap from here, how pines as crooked and gnarled as the skeleton’s bones who hold you rise towards a rocky ceiling, dusted evenly in a snowfall that never ends.

A sign passes between the gaps in Papyrus’ ribcage alongside the path, torn and fluttering scraps on an unfelt wind.

You try to turn your head, to look, but those gloves are no longer so kind, grip no longer so  _careful_. Each phalange in ragged crimson gloves is felt as they dig into you, painful a warning.

“ _Shhh,”_ The creature hisses again, and glimpsing up how those twisted features and star captive lights glint down at you, nearly cold and distant in that skull of his, “ _Quiet._ ”

 _Quiet_ , the word creaks from a maw of tangled, uneven teeth.

You listen, and hold your breath in this silent winter.

The silence is not so quiet, given the chance beneath Papyrus’ now stilled voice and suddenly mute bones. The way he moves is as stealthily as he must have moved before to sneak upon you and Sans, elongated, stretched out legs creeping through untouched snow.

You keep your face pressed to his chest, but peek more openly through the tatters of his clothing and his thinned, sharpened ribcage.

It’s a town. Dead, snowed in from the falling frost, buildings with broken, barred doors and dust lining window sills mark the way. Nothing greets either of you, naught but the unfelt wind whispering through your hair, the chill that bites at your skin, and the flickering of light, dancing behind glass.

Someone’s home, but they don’t make themselves known.

Papyrus jerks his next step forward. You aren’t expecting it. Your breath hitches at the sharp impact of his bones against you, and through the shadows, something darts.

You’re not alone.

He picks up his steps. The snow crunches eagerly under the way Papyrus’ chest is suddenly heaving against you. You don’t understand - your shaking fingers dig into the shredded fabric of his tunic, keep a hold. His panic becomes yours, the crisp break in snow with his every step drawing you to look - look - _look,_

Papyrus moves faster.

This time, you don’t miss when something flickers out behind a building, something with _fangs_ and _fur_ , _claws_ and _eyes_ \- snarling in the quiet, you barely catch it, barely, before it can _catch you_ ,

Before Papyrus turns, and crunching snow becomes creaking wood, and with the sound of bone scrabbling against metal, a door opens and shuts behind you.

  
  


You’re shaking. His tight grip has yet to relent, and you will bruise come the following days from how he holds you close, shockingly still, no longer ragged with how broken bones clicked together, a cacophony for an unspoken terror. Still do you will your beating heart, soft panting breaths in your terror, even if the fear has yet to fade.

Whatever this world is, Papyrus is as scared as you are, and he _lives_ here.

There is no sign of that creature now that you’re inside. No howling screams or bemoaning snarls, no scrabbling of those wicked claws upon the door or fang-toothed screeching at the windows. Nothing. Just a live skeleton twisted from a nightmare, holding you tight and still to his frame, the only sound your heart hammering at your ears.

“Well,” Croaked from false throat, the stillness is broken and for once does it seem tall skeleton remembers to keep his quiet tone. He comes to life all at once, curled grip softening as he walks, a heavier gait on a carpeted floor. You’re set carefully down on a lumpy couch before you have a chance to look around, his sharp lights distant and still even as he speaks. “Home Safe And - And S-Sound.”

Safe and sound, a voice creeps out of monster’s chest, crawling from throat and out those unmoving teeth as he stares at you, unseeing. It’s a home of boarded windows and a duotoned carpet, worn furniture and a staircase with a broken banister. A home befit condemning, amidst a silent winder under a mountain where snarling creatures roam.

“shame.” a sudden voice rasps in that sickly tune, and you jump - curling in on yourself, turning to find a familiar rotten eye that stares unbiddenly from the edge of an armchair. “i was hoping you wouldn’t make it.”

“ _Sans!_ ” Papyrus all but screeches in the only volume he can, and that near unseeing gaze of his comes back to the present once more. The monster in question is at the edge of his seat, thin, knobbed phalanges pressed hard on his kneecaps, impossibly arrived before the two of you. “How Many T-Times Have I _Told You_ How - How _Insensitive_ Your Jokes Are?”

You don’t dare look away from that intruding grin, carving a path sharper up his wide skull.

“what can i say?” And slow does that pregnant eye of his sharpen itself finely, a bloody gem, “you’ve got no _skin_ to get under, bro.”

The taller of the two nearly growls his sigh, working out low in a voice he should not own, possessed in that ribcage of his, before he turns back to you.

You don’t want to look away from Sans and that skull-cracking smile of his, but you do, pressed tight into the couch, still shaking from the cold that has frosted your fingers a painful red.

“I Am Going To Prepare _Dinner_ , Human. Then You Ought To - To Get Some _Rest_.” Painfully slow do his words reach you, as if he has mixed the meaning of _mute_ with _unintelligible_. “You Will T-take The Couch Tonight, And Come _Morning_ We Shall Check On Y-Your... _Recovery_.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. Impossibly tall, how he hunches over himself to turn around and leave, spindly body curled in tight and near breaking at the spine with how compact he moves. Gone is the lean grace of the creature that carried you hear, replaced with the heavy, near-mindless steps of what truly must be a _broken thing_.

Papyrus enters what must be the kitchen, steps clacking on tile.

You’re afraid to look back at the other monster.

Sans, with his broken crown of a skull, and that rubied eye of his, but he takes the choice from you.

“... you must be confused.”

Oh, hot is his words right next to you. You can see the glow of his eye on your skin, your nose, and you can view him all too clearly, all to close from your peripheral.

He had moved so quickly, a sputtering, choked wheeze aching silently from your chest in the fear and pain. That scythe’s cut of a smile refuses to abandon him, and if anything, it stretches wider as if to hang itself upon his skull. You dare not to turn your head, but stare, wide-eyed at this beast who holds himself so close.

You don’t doubt he could tear open your bruising skin with the thinned, razor ends of those phalanges that perch ever so delicately on your arm, digging painfully in like talons.

From one moment at the edge of a seat across the room, the next beside you and crouched on too long a couch.

Could you scream, how it would tear the air.

“papyrus didn’t clarify.” Etched is that tone, gravel up the torn holes of his shirt and red-stained hoodie, from a set of lungs he _does not have_ , burst lowly into your ear. “ _if._ ”

 _If_ , he murmurs, and you can almost feel his smile pressed to your ear.

The monster is too close. He smells of copper and ice, salt and pine nettle, nauseating in the dry, cold still of this broken home. You want to ask, _if what?_ , but your hands won’t work. Won’t move, prickling with the pain of being pulled from a too-long cold, one arm in his clutched grasp as he holds tight enough to break the skin.

 _If what_ , you want to hitch out in the slow, ragged breaths that plague you, still too afraid to turn to face him with his teeth tucked against your ear.

“ _if_ ,” Skeleton slowly repeats, and you’re suddenly not so sure you want to hear the answer. “- you live long ‘nough _come_ morning.”

The pain is swift and excruciating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i tried writing out the next chapter for the timeline project, but it's been eluding me, so i decided to take another stab at this story! i'm not really planning anything for it, just exercising writing suspense, horror, and gore all at once while keeping a light, almost poetic style. so far i'm p happy with it!
> 
>  
> 
> [my tumblr.](http://scripttura.tumblr.com)


	3. match a monster's claws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gore level: medium

Blood dribbles down your skin, painting down the hollow of your throat to the canvas of your clavicle. How thin are the pillars of his teeth, set in such straight rows, dug so neatly into your earlobe? The skin had torn so  _ easily _ , and even now skeleton holds the cartilage still, like any moment he may continue to  _ pull _ until your ear rips clean off.

You can’t scream. You can’t pull away. You can’t  _ stop him _ , even as he hums achingly absent into your ear.

You’d tried jerking away, snapping your head fast at the pain - but oh, how his teeth were caught into your skin like blunt knives, sharper than first appeared in their uniform grin. All you’d managed by pulling was the further of a tear between earlobe and skull, his phalanges drawn blood at the bruised skin of your arm.

Shaking. You’re shaking, it is  _ so painful _ , and you can not call for help as skeleton pants a breath of air slick with your own taste. Trembling do your own fingers raise, and how something in his chest  _ rumbles _ , ragged through the space of his ribcage beside you, and it takes you a long moment to recognize the sound as you press red, prickling fingers to the hollow of your throat.

They come away bloody.

He’s laughing. This monster is  _ laughing _ , your torn ear in his jaws, at any moment willing to continue his torture. Oh, how that rotten eye of his has  _ blossomed _ , such a large, deeply colored thing, dark in contrast to the blood on a shaking hand.

You whine. It comes out broken and hoarse, cracking up an unused throat, and that amused sound dies in creature’s ribcage. Fear roots its way into you, spiderwebbed into your veins, choking a fist around your heart all but halfway up your throat.

Skeleton is dangerously still. His grin is dying around the edges, and you wheeze silently with every breath.

He begins to  _ pull _ , again, and you brace yourself to tug  _ away, _

Only he lets go.

You fall back away from him, and skitter back to the other end of the couch, until you nearly fall off completely, barely catching yourself on unsteady, prickling feet. Trembling do hands rise to abused ear, press over the bleeding wound, chest a rapid little thing for all the noise you  _ will not  _ make.

Monster is still, crouched on his feet upon the couch as if you have not moved. Your ear is still intact, but torn, and what a sight he is with your blood painting his teeth - that crooked yet perfect line, shaper than it looks. Broken eye is staring where you once were, and slow do you watch it shrink, before he speaks, slow and clipped.

“upstairs.” Almost a different monster. No longer the idle bemusement, but a flat, heavy tone. “bathroom.”

You hesitate, rightfully so. Afraid he might lunge the moment you move, afraid you might not make it one more step - crimson iris snaps to you, and the way he snarls? It is a low, grating noise that tremors the very air, settling in the very pit of you.

“ _ now _ .”

You move.

Up the stairs with the broken banister splintered into jagged pieces of wood, you keep a hand to your ear - it bleeds profusely irregardless the size, and you dare not look back, dare not let drop any blood par your trembling, frantic touch, steps bearing down on the steps as they groan beneath you.

There are three doors. The first door, covered in faded stickers and marks, is obviously a bedroom. The second and third are plain, but the second opens when you try, and leads to a what you’re looking for.

You shut the door behind you, and after a fumbling, panicked moment, find a lock.

It clicks into place.

Tears burn hot at your eyes, and you go to wipe them away with your free hand, willing them away. A sink, hamper, and shower greet you alike. There’s a mirror, splintered in arcing shards from some kind of impact, right above the sink.

You hesitate to pull your hand away, leaning over the counter, blood dripping to the discolored porcelain below, joining the myriad of other faded, rust-colored stains. You can’t cry - you  _ can’t _ , and even as tears threaten to keep you from seeing, your shot nerves from  _ letting _ to pull your hand away in the first place, somehow you manage it, forcing white knuckles to grip tight the edge of the counter.

It’s not as bad as you thought.

It’s mostly the blood, slowing in it’s idle dribbling, that makes the tear look the worst. But you’ve smeared red across your eyes from wiping away the tears, and it’s dragged a red trail down throat and chest alike. Your shirt is stained, your arm bruised, small wells of crimson to match a monster’s claws.

You… You need to breathe.

You need to breathe, the creature staring back in the mirror seeming nothing alike  _ you _ , but another monster in this foreign world.

How long? How long have you been down here? ( You don’t know. )

What are these things? These -  _ monsters? _ ( You don’t know. )

How are you going to get out? ( You don’t know.)

… Did you even really  _ survive _ that fall? ( You… you  _ don’t know _ . )

Breathing turns to crying, and crying turns to turning on the sink and pulling your shirt over your head to rinse furiously and painfully at your skin. Starting with your ear and down, you find a torn rag on top of the hamper and don’t hesitate. It’s rough and far past it’s good use, and with the way you scratch it painfully to remove the blood, it’s rubbing you raw.

You don’t really care.

You set the rag to sit in the running water, hoping to wash the blood out - but mostly, to get another glance through the cracked reflection. Still does that stranger glance back, fearful eyes and pale-like skin of a ghoul, quick-to-blossom bruises growing a garden on your skin.

You ache. You ache painfully so, and you have nothing you wrap your ear with, but at the very least it’s stopped bleeding. It’s just you and the pain now - pain and the monsters awaiting you to return.

Monsters that very well shouldn’t exist but in folklore and myth, or in shattered mirrors both topside or underground.

But here you are, and so are they.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's 3 am but im rlly digging writing this since it feels super casual! hope you guys are enjoying, it's definitely gonna be a fucked up ride ^__^
> 
> [my tumblr.](http://scripttura.tumblr.com)


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